


Sweetling

by lordhellebore



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-04-25 19:54:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14385969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordhellebore/pseuds/lordhellebore
Summary: They dine and they dance, and Robb treats his lady like the perfect knight. He always does, after all. And then there's what happens with his cloak.





	Sweetling

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Let me issue a clear warning here concerning the ‘castration’ tag I used: this fic comes with a graphic description of the results of genital mutilation. Please don’t read if you can’t handle that.  
> 2) Talisa doesn't exist, also in the show :P I reject your reality and subsitute my own.

Theon is waiting by the table when the door to his room opens, hands clenched around the back of one of the chairs. They’ve done this before, but never quite like this.

Robb is wearing a dark grey velvet doublet, with the Stark sigil embroidered on the chest in silver, and what looks like his best cloak, lined with thick, shiny fur. Despite not wearing the crown - which he still hates - he looks every inch the King in the North, and like always when he sees him like this, Theon can hardly believe that it’s real.

“Robb Stark is dead. My father put a knife through his heart.” That’s what Ramsay had told him, but it had been a lie - everything he’d told him about the war had been lies, and Theon had never been so glad to have been lied to than when he’d realised that Robb was still alive.

He’d looked tired back then, when Theon had seen him for the first time after he had taken back Winterfell: battle-worn and rugged, his hair and beard long and wild, and yet he’d looked no less like a king than now. Theon, instead - he’d been wretched, more dog than man, whimpering in his own filth at Robb’s feet when he had entered his cell. He’d never -

Hands wrap around his and he flinches - but it’s only Robb, who’s looking at him with an expression Theon can’t place for a moment. Shouldn’t he be disgusted by him, by the filth and the stench and -

“Theon,” Robb says as he draws Theon’s right hand to his lips and presses a soft kiss to the knuckles. Blood rushes to Theon’s cheeks, and he takes a shaky breath. They’re not in the kennels, he remembers, they’re in his chambers, which are right next to Robb’s, and he’s not dirty, not wearing rags, but -

“You look lovely.” The open adoration on Robb’s face - because _that’s_ what it is, and no wonder it got him confused - makes him shiver. He wants to answer but finds that he can’t.

Robb only smiles. “Let’s sit, shall we?” Theon doesn’t resist when Robb pulls out his chair for him, and he can’t withstand the temptation to place his hands in his lap when he sits, and to brush his fingers over the soft fabric. It’s still strange to imagine that this is his - that it was made just for him when before . . .

“It suits you,” Robb says, and Theon looks up to find him still smiling at him from across the small table. “I knew Jeyne would make it work. The green brings out your eyes.”

Theon nods; he’s seen it in the mirror, but again, he can’t seem to find the words to reply. To think that Jeyne made it herself - the Queen in the North, _his_ queen - taking his measurements, sewing for hours and days just so that he and her husband can . . . He forces himself to stop that line of thought; if he goes on like this, the evening won’t go well. Jeyne has told him a hundred times already that she doesn’t mind, has never been anything but kind to him since she met him. She’s always encouraged them being together, even helped him to dress and did his hair just a short while ago - it’s not like he could ask a servant or maid to do it. No, he needn’t worry about Jeyne.

They eat in silence - Theon is too nervous to talk, and although the food is delicious as always, he’s got to force it down, hands shaking, his stomach churning. In the end, he puts down the cutlery although he’s barely eaten anything at all. He’s avoided looking at Robb during the meal, but now he looks up at him, watches him get up and slowly round the table.

“My lady,” Robb says and holds out his hand, “will you dance with me?”

He’s expected the address - it’s not _new_ , after all - but still when it comes, there is a weird dizzy feeling. Somehow, tonight is different, and they both can feel it, he’s certain. When he stands, putting his hand into Robb’s, it seems just the tiniest bit unreal, like he were in some kind of dream. Robb’s arm comes to wrap around his waist, gently pulling him closer before he raises Theon’s hand to his face and places another soft kiss on it. Again, hot blood rushes into Theon’s cheeks, and he shivers and leans into the touch when Robb lets go of his hand and instead brushes a stray lock of hair behind Theon’s ear. It must have escaped the braids Jeyne put into his hair, a northern style that makes the remaining open hair curl gently around his neck from behind.

There are no musicians, no minstrel, but it doesn’t matter all that much - Robb is humming softly, a melody they both know from countless feasts, and they move slowly, back and forth and sideways, turning and twirling gently, the smooth fabric of Theon’s dress rustling and swinging around his legs in a way that makes his breath hitch every now and then.

They haven’t done this often, and he learnt dancing in the leading position, but he finds that when he keeps looking into Robb’s eyes - so blue and soft - and tries not to think at all, it’s not so hard to let himself be led instead. He finds it easier these days anyway - to follow. Being a lord or even a prince is something he couldn’t care less about; that he’s alive and here like this, with Robb, is its own miracle.

Balon Greyjoy would turn in his grave if he saw him like this, Theon thinks; _soft_ is what he’d call him most likely. _Weak. (It rhymes with weak, so weak…)_ But he’d be wrong. Theon is training harder these days than he ever did before all of this happened - sometimes he can even best Robb at swordplay, though it’s rare - and he’s almost gained back his old strength. If there ever is another war, he’ll fight beside Robb, and he’ll stand his man and kill as many as he must. But here and now, there’s no need to think of fighting - not when the wars are over, when their enemies are defeated, even the undead ones, and he’s in Robb’s arms, who has pulled him in yet a little closer, warm breath ghosting over Theon’s skin as he keeps humming, every now and then brushing the hint of a kiss on Theon’s cheek. Here and now, he can succumb to being treated like this, like he’s delicate, fragile. They both know that he’s not, or else he wouldn’t have survived Ramsay with his sanity worth saving, but it helps nonethetless.

For an evening at least, he thinks half-amused, they can dance and pretend as if they were in a song, as if he’d been a lady in peril, and Robb his valiant knight who saved him. And hadn’t it been like that, in the end? At least as far as Robb was concerned. And after . . . He’d been far too understanding, too forgiving, despite his rightful anger, even after everything. Robb _is_ a bloody knight right out of a song, and at first it had made Theon’s shame over his own mistakes burn all the hotter. These days, he tries not to dwell on it; instead, he is grateful that Robb didn’t behead him like he should have done.

“Theon,” Robb interrupts his thoughts, and he realises that they stopped dancing, that he’s standing stiffly in Robb’s hold, fingers clenched tightly around Robb’s. “Stop brooding.”

“Sorry,” Theon mumbles. He knows it wasn’t a reprimand, but he can’t help himself. It’s got better, though, and he doesn’t apologise for everything he does any longer.

“What were you thinking of?” Robb wants to know, and although it’s embarrassing, somehow Theon wants him to know.

“That you’re like - like a knight out of a song.” Gods, but that’s silly! He sounded like Sansa back when her fancy for songs of knights and their ladies hadn’t faded yet, when she never would’ve dreamt of settling in the Dreadfort as Lady Clegane with the man who helped her escape King’s Landing.

“There was more, though, wasn’t there?”

Theon nods. “But I don’t want to think about it; it’s nothing you don’t know anyway. I - I like the thoughts of knights and ladies better.”

Robb smiles, then, and leans in for a kiss, and Theon loves how different this is, loves how soft Robb’s lips are against his own. Nothing Ramsay did to him had been soft - and he’s thinking again, he’s comparing like he does far too often, because he has to, has to keep comparing, keep convincing himself that it’s over and this is Robb, and what they do is good and right and nothing, _nothing at all_ like what happened with Ramsay.

“I’m glad I could be your knight,” Robb says, and there’s no smile anymore, no amusement, just gentle sincerity that makes Theon’s eyes burn and a lump grow in his throat. Robb understood - of course he did, he always does, _now and always_ \- and it’s too much to look him in the eye any longer, and Theon’s head comes to lie on Robb’s shoulder, face half buried against his neck.

“Thank you.”

Robb only holds him closer and starts swaying slightly again to non-existent music. After a little while, Theon closes his eyes; he’s being rocked now rather than them dancing, but that’s all right with him. Back after Robb had returned, he’d taken the time to spend an hour or two every night with Theon - sitting with him, rocking him and telling him he was safe. Theon hadn’t yet been able to hold a proper conversation, hadn’t understood much of anything other than that Robb wouldn’t hurt him like Ramsay, wouldn’t kill him like he deserved. He’d clung to Robb for dear life after some time, but he’d been scared as well, because he hadn’t been able to understand - after everything he’d done, what was he to Robb other than a turncloak whose life was forfeit? Who was he if he wasn’t Reek - as Robb kept telling him - wasn’t a miserable, disgusting wretch who -

“Who am I?” he murmurs against Robb’s neck. He needs to ask, to know for certain - and he needs to hear more than his name. “Please, tell me.”

“You’re Theon Greyjoy,” Robb says promptly, like’s he’s done so often. “You’re a good man, and you’re my friend and my brother. My lover. And you’re my lady whenever you want to be.”

“Now and always?” Theon hates how pathetic he sounds, hates how much is voice is shaking and that he needs to hear it from Robb yet again. After almost three years, you’d think he’d understood it, that he wouldn’t need so much help to believe, to remember.

“Now and always,” Robb agrees, and Theon lets himself sag against him. “Now and always,” Robb repeats before he presses a kiss to Theon’s temple.

 _A good man._ Theon finds that hard to believe - what good man would have little boys killed, and what good man would betray his king - his lover - like he did? That’s what Ramsay had asked him, until between that and the mutilation, he hadn’t felt like a man at all anymore, but like dirt. Like nothing. _Reek, Reek, it rhymes with dirt and with nothing_ , because even if it doesn’t really, there is no difference at all.

“There is,” Robb says, “and you’re not _him_ , you never were. You were always Theon. You were always my brother, even when you forgot for a while.”

Theon realises he’s said that last part aloud, like he does sometimes when he lets his guard slip, when it’s just him and Robb, and sometimes Jeyne. They’re standing still again, and when Robb cups his cheek and makes him look up at him, Theon lets him. He’s so gentle, his touches are warm on Theon’s skin, and the dress rustles quietly as he leads Theon to the bed and makes him sit down next to him. It settles over his legs, smooth and soft, and Robb smiles when Theon can’t help but run his fingers over the fabric again. Robb mimics his action, stroking over the shimmering green skirts until his hand comes to lie on Theon’s, his other arm wrapped around Theon’s waist.

“It’s beautiful,” Theon murmurs after some moments. “Jeyne . . . she’s very kind.”

“She is,” Robb agrees. “And _you’re_ beautiful.”

“I . . . I do feel -” He can’t say beautiful, although he’s glad that Robb sees it that way, but he does feel “. . . better. It’s . . . just that it was made _for me_ \- and it fits better than the one she lent me, or the one I stole form your mother.”

Robb chuckles. “That one was too big at first, and then too small, but I still liked it on you.”

He must have, or else they wouldn’t have had their first kiss when they’d been barely fourteen and Robb had caught Theon trying on the old dress he’d nicked from the laundry. They had both been confused, and while eventually, they’d kissed again just some weeks later, it had taken them months before either of them had breached the subject of the dress again.

Theon isn’t sure if he’s any less confused these days than he was back then - everything got messed up so terribly in his head - but he does know that he wants this: the dress, and for Robb to look at him as if he were beautiful, to call him beautiful, even. It makes him feel almost bold, and when Robb slowly lets his fingers wander over Theon’s hand and up his arm to his shoulder, it’s he who leans in and kisses Robb.

Maybe he isn’t quite a man – although Robb tells him it’s not his prick that makes him one and that he’s more of a man than many others he knows – but he’s also not feeling like dirt or nothing. Not when Robb calls him ‘brother’ and ‘my lady’ and looks at him like this, when he kisses him, so softly and sweetly, and still like he really means it. Theon doesn’t know how he can mean it, not after everything he’s done – and everything that was done _to_ him – but he’s tired of questioning it, of being unable to believe him. He’s tired of being dirt and nothing, so much so that it aches deep in his bones, and everything that makes it hurt even a tiny bit less is a good thing. So he doesn’t protest – most of the time – when Robb tells him he loves him, and he tries not to think too much about how he doesn’t deserve it.

“May I?,” Robb asks when the kiss is over, hand hovering over the laces at the back of Theon’s neck, and when Theon nods after a moment and turns so that Robb can reach them better, he begins unlacing the dress, bit by bit exposing Theon’s back. He does it slowly, giving Theon time to tell him to stop, but that’s the last thing Theon wants to do right now.

Instead, he gets up so that Robb can unlace the dress fully, and he stands still as Robb takes it off him, exposing his shoulders and arms before letting it slide to the ground. Theon shivers, now naked as he steps out of the dress pooling around his feet, and there’s a tense moment in which he’s tempted to bolt before Robb reaches out - very slowly - and touches his cheek. Theon leans into the touch with all his willpower instead of jerking away, then Robb’s lips are on his again, soft and familiar, and Theon breathes into the kiss, relieved and just a tad dizzy.

“It’s me,” Robb soothes, fingers playing with the soft hair at the back of Theon’s neck, “it’s just me, everything’s fine.”

He’s right, and Theon deepens the kiss until he’s left breathless and smiling as they break apart. When Robb kisses him again just moments later, it’s not on his lips but the cheek, then the neck, the shoulder . . . Briefly, Theon wonders if they should take it to the bed - but he’s not ready for that, he knows it the moment he looks over at it. They only tried it once, at the very beginning, and it had ended with him confusing Robb with Ramsay and - no, he’s _not_ going there, he tells himself, and he’s grateful that he manages to instead focus on Robb, who is busy kissing every single scar he can find on Theon. 

Theon still doesn’t know how he can even look at him, but he’s sick of questioning it, and this . . . this feels too nice to let it be ruined by his fickle mind. He tries not to think so much, concentrating on the feeling of Robb’s lips and beard against his skin, soft enough so that even when he touches the scars that are still red and sensitive, it doesn’t hurt even one bit. Robb would never hurt him, and he keeps that thought in his mind when Robb first kisses and then gently suckles at the nipple he’s got left - it’s a better thought than Ramsay holding a knife to the other one, cold and painful. But Robb’s mouth is warm, and he barely uses his teeth, and after a few moments, Theon relaxes into the feeling. It doesn’t make hot blood pool in his groin, doesn’t quite make him squirm with urgency and desire like it used to, but it still feels good, and so tender - Theon has come to appreciate _tender_ more than he ever imagined. As long as Robb gives him that, he’ll never be tired of this. Ramsay took something from Theon, but he couldn’t take this. Nobody can take what’s between them, and he’s grateful that Robb doesn’t mind proving it to him time and time again.

He’s moving on to Theon’s stomach now, and then . . . Theon knows Robb is doing this on purpose. It’s impossible to miss the mischief in his eyes and smile as he sinks down to his knees in front of him: the King in the North, kneeling in front of Theon Turncloak - because that’s what some still call him if Robb is nowhere in sight - only he knows Robb would tell him, as he’s done before, that no, he’s merely kneeling in front of _his lady_ like he’s supposed to be, even as a king. 

“All right?” he asks, and when Theon nods, he carefully grips Theon’s hips and leans forward and -

The first time, Theon hadn’t been able to take it. He’d stumbled backwards and fallen, and he doesn’t remember what happened after that, only that he woke up in the morning in Robb’s bed between him and Jeyne. The time after that had been better, and the one after that, and now . . .

Theon reaches down, sliding the fingers of both hands into Robb’s hair as he watches him - he can’t look away, or else he’ll forget that it’s _Robb_ touching him, Robb who is kissing every inch of his groin, starting with the flayed skin near his hips, letting his lips and tongue wander inward, inch by inch, until he reaches what’s left of Theon’s prick. 

Ramsay was neither careful nor precise; it’s barely even a stump, ragged folds of flesh taut with scar tissue, still luridly red in places. It’s unavoidable, but Theon hates touching it, hates even looking at it, and yet even if he could, he wouldn’t _want_ to take his eyes off Robb as he begins kissing and licking just there, slowly trailing down to where Theon’s balls should be, and up again - as if it weren’t shameful and disgusting. As if it - as if _Theon_ were desirable. 

Theon barely registers the tears on his cheeks, or the way his hands curl into fists in Robb’s hair, tugging in a way that must be painful; all he can focus on are Robb’s lips and tongue, warm and wet against his too numb and yet too sensitive flesh. He isn’t sure how or why, but this is more intense, more intimate than anything they ever did before, and his breath comes in shaky gasps, not from arousal, but _something else_ , something undefinable that’s just as powerful, if not more. It’s almost too much - and sometimes it is - but he knows that today, if Robb were to stop right now, he’d beg for him to go on.

Robb takes his time, though, and Theon doesn’t object when, finally, he gets up and instead of his groin, kisses Theon’s lips - just as thoroughly and gently. When they break the kiss, Theon can’t suppress a whimper - he could go on kissing Robb for hours. Robb chuckles and complies, holding Theon close as they share yet another kiss, and another.

In the end, they do pull apart, and Robb shoots Theon a questioning look. “What do you think? Should I take off my clothes?”

“I . . .” Theon’s first instinct is to say yes, simply because it’s something Robb wants, but then he thinks better of it. “Not - not today.” He can’t pinpoint a reason - he rarely can - but he knows it’s not the right time, and he can’t do it. It barely lasts for a moment, but he doesn’t miss the fleeting look of disappointment on Robb’s face, and he curses himself for his weakness. Robb is giving him so much, and yet, half of the time he can’t even look at him without clothes, much less reciprocate.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out, and he hates the frantic, almost frightened undertone to his voice, “I - I want to but - it’s just . . . I’m sorry.“

Robb shakes his head, all disappointment gone. “You don’t need to apologise for that. Never. You know that.”

The thing is, Theon does. As with everything else, Robb does mean it. He never demands anything, never truly expects anything, even, and if he’s a bit disappointed - well. That’s just human. And no reason to be afraid.

“Yes.” Theon breathes deeply and manages to compose himself, can even muster a lopsided grin after some moments. “You’ve given me that speech so often I can recite it by heart.”

“Well, good,” Robb says, and though he sounds serious, he’s smiling as well. “Then I suggest you abide by it.”

“As Your Grace commands.” 

“You know . . .“ There’s an odd look on Robb’s face, and Theon wonders what brought it on. “I’ve always thought people should call you that, too.”

What does he mean? It’s Yara who’s queen of the Iron Islands now, and even if she weren’t, Theon could never rule. It’s no use wishing it were any different. They were barely more than boys when they went to war, when they hatched that silly plan of being kings together.

“Robb, that’s . . . We both know I’ll never be a king, and it’s no use crying over spilt milk. I’m happy as it is.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Robb takes a step back, letting his eyes wander over Theon, who’s still naked and suddenly feels uncomfortable under the intense scrutiny. 

“There’s something I’ve been wanting to do,” Robb goes on, “and I think maybe now is the right time.” 

Theon watches in growing confusion as Robb unfastens his fur-lined cloak. He moves slowly, deliberately, his eyes fixed on Theon’s.

“I love you, my lady. I wish I could let everyone know just how much,” he says as he puts the cloak around Theon’s shoulders just as slowly, never once looking away from him. It’s warm and impossibly soft and a much lighter shade of grey than his doublet, and the same direwolf is embroidered on it. _Stark colours_. Robb is telling Theon that he loves him, is calling him ‘my lady’ as he’s cloaking him in Stark colours, and Theon knows he must either be dreaming or losing his mind. Only it’s neither - this is real, and it’s at this moment that Theon knows without a doubt that if he could, this is what Robb would do under the Weirwood, in front of the entire North. He can read it in his eyes, in every line of his face, and despite whatever he believes about not being worthy, Theon knows he would let him.

 _You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection._

He wants to say something, anything, thank Robb, tell him he understands and feels the same - but all he gets out is an inarticulate moan that reminds him of Reek, and then his legs give in and he collapses into Robb’s embrace, face buried against his chest, fingers scrabbling for something to hold onto. He’s too shaken to stand on his own; it’s Rob who’s keeping him upright, and Theon hates it, and himself for being weak and pathetic and -

“It’s all right, love. It’s all right, I’ve got you.”

Robb would marry him anyway, he realises as Robb half leads and half carries him to the bed, where he sits them both down and draws Theon close to his chest again, pulling the furs over them. No matter how much of Reek there’s still inside him, no matter how often it shows - Robb doesn’t care. He’d be proud to show everyone just how much he loves Theon, just as he keeps showing them that despite everything, Theon still is his brother. He calls him that often enough in front of whoever is there to hear it. It’s who he is, and Theon doesn’t deserve him, but he realises that he couldn’t bear it if it were any different. He moans again, curling up tightly against Robb, who holds him closer. Safer.

“My lady,” he whispers, “my love, my dearest.” It had sounded awkward at first, and Theon had been confused and ashamed for needing to be praised and coddled like this, for craving it so desperately. He’s still ashamed, and he burrows deeper under the furs, deeper into Robb’s arms, until his face is all but hidden and the air he breathes is thick with both their body warmth; but Robb no longer sounds awkward after months and years, and he’s always, _always_ sounded like he means it.

“Theon,” Robb says now, and his name sounds no different than ‘my love’ or ‘my lady’, and Theon knows they all mean the same. _Robb’s_ is what they mean, and _forgiven_. Robb’s lips are on his hair, his strong hand gently rubbing Theon’s back, and Theon feels warm and heavy, down here surrounded by furs and Robb, where it’s dark and safe, where nobody can find and hurt him. Not even Ramsey, not even in his mind.

“Sweetling,” Robb murmurs; it’s an endearment for children and maidens, but Theon can find no humiliation in it. _Now and always._ His hand sneaks out from under the covers, and Robb’s wraps around it; yet another kiss follows, and it is this filling Theon’s mind when he drifts to sleep soon after under Robb’s Stark-coloured cloak: soft whispers, kisses, and the way they had danced, the skirts of his dress swirling gently around him and his knight.


End file.
